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Paris, 1832 (a little fall of rain)
Sep. 16th, 2013 06:44 amIt's raining again.
It's Hissing like a snake about her neck, moistly pressed against her ear and whispering in her ear - love-talk. Promises that coil like muscles and pour into her mind, constricting it.
And she, she who was a wretch, she who had so little now stands at the threshold of ruining three lives in a single gesture.
For Eponine, the choice is simple: it's her heart or Cosette's, and the little blonde maiden hasn't done Eponine a favor in eleven years.
It sounds reasonable, when she thinks of it like that. Cosette is young and beautiful; she'll make some man a pretty wife, have his children, be the light of his lie.
But for poor, skinny, fallen Eponine, there is only Marius - Marius and his unstinting patience, his endless love, his kindness and his open ears. She wants to consume him within her, swallow him like a communion wafer and be absolved forever of her foolish pride.
Yes, it would be so easy to lie - to throw away the letter and go to the barricade with a smile, wiping Marius' brow as he pushed the soldiers back to hell with his bare hands.
She stops, sole arched in mid-step as the rain kisses the back of her neck.
No. That will never happen.
I love him...
She must tell Marius. Cosette will be his salvation from the endless saber rattling, the Sisyphean effort of blending in with the ABCs. Eponine will pick bullets for them in her hat and coat; she will be a martyr for the cause, will make Gavroche beam with pride. He will get along without her, the way he always has, living in his elephant, leading his merry gang of beggars.
The midnight bell chimes, the gutters overflow, and her skin leaps. Eponine is going nowhere; the discontented circle she has walked in is wide and aimless, the trail of the insane, the damned.
But only on my own...
Marius doesn't love her. Never loved her.
She knows it. She carries the shattering truth deep within her breast, glittering like a hammer made of diamonds. Her head slides back, back, into the warm beckoning shower, as if those diamonds have imploded and are shredding her heart, her soul.
The rain soaks into her face, her skin, her hair; she is saturated; she is baptized; she is in a state of grace...
...Then Eponine wipes her dripping nose against her dirty palm and steps over the threshold of her building.
Apparently even the soulless need creature comforts.
It's Hissing like a snake about her neck, moistly pressed against her ear and whispering in her ear - love-talk. Promises that coil like muscles and pour into her mind, constricting it.
And she, she who was a wretch, she who had so little now stands at the threshold of ruining three lives in a single gesture.
For Eponine, the choice is simple: it's her heart or Cosette's, and the little blonde maiden hasn't done Eponine a favor in eleven years.
It sounds reasonable, when she thinks of it like that. Cosette is young and beautiful; she'll make some man a pretty wife, have his children, be the light of his lie.
But for poor, skinny, fallen Eponine, there is only Marius - Marius and his unstinting patience, his endless love, his kindness and his open ears. She wants to consume him within her, swallow him like a communion wafer and be absolved forever of her foolish pride.
Yes, it would be so easy to lie - to throw away the letter and go to the barricade with a smile, wiping Marius' brow as he pushed the soldiers back to hell with his bare hands.
She stops, sole arched in mid-step as the rain kisses the back of her neck.
No. That will never happen.
I love him...
She must tell Marius. Cosette will be his salvation from the endless saber rattling, the Sisyphean effort of blending in with the ABCs. Eponine will pick bullets for them in her hat and coat; she will be a martyr for the cause, will make Gavroche beam with pride. He will get along without her, the way he always has, living in his elephant, leading his merry gang of beggars.
The midnight bell chimes, the gutters overflow, and her skin leaps. Eponine is going nowhere; the discontented circle she has walked in is wide and aimless, the trail of the insane, the damned.
But only on my own...
Marius doesn't love her. Never loved her.
She knows it. She carries the shattering truth deep within her breast, glittering like a hammer made of diamonds. Her head slides back, back, into the warm beckoning shower, as if those diamonds have imploded and are shredding her heart, her soul.
The rain soaks into her face, her skin, her hair; she is saturated; she is baptized; she is in a state of grace...
...Then Eponine wipes her dripping nose against her dirty palm and steps over the threshold of her building.
Apparently even the soulless need creature comforts.
